


Summer's Dust

by manzanilla



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, Child Abuse, Gen, Pre-Philosopher's Stone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manzanilla/pseuds/manzanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry picks up a book, meets a Kneazle, and changes his life a little earlier than others intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Book

Harry was almost five years old and at the age where everything was curious and fascinating. More precisely he was four-and-eight-months and loved pulling on blooming flowers and capturing ladybugs in the springtime. And the questions he had! How he longed to ask why things were, and how things are. Unfortunately, however, his aunt liked to keep her garden very meticulous, hated anything that didn't stand on two legs, and hated answering Harry's questions even more so. 

Harry was at a particular age, but due to a stifling home atmosphere, often let his curiosity get the best of him, as it did one early spring day, when he tripped and fell and changed his life forever. 

\--- 

"Mummy! I don't want him to come! Don't let him come!" 

"Don't worry Dudders, the boy isn't stepping anywhere near the car."  

It was a bright, beautiful Saturday, and naturally this meant outings for families who had spent too long inside during the dreary winter months. The Dursleys had this in mind as they prepared to spend the day in London touristing around and shopping. Harry, who was sitting on the sofa watching television and who was certainly not considered a Dursley, was preparing to spend the day with their neighbor, Arabella Figg. He tried to ignore the loud talking and bangs upstairs as the Dursleys got ready for their day and focused instead on the telly. He was fidgeting, a testament to how much he wanted to be outside in the sun as any child would, but forced himself to stay put. 

A series of clicks down the stairs alerted Harry to his aunt's emerging presence and he got up.  

"Well, are you ready?" She asked curtly as she stepped down the last step and stood by the front door. 

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry pulled on his ratty, hand-me-down backpack, which contained only a peanut butter sandwich that would be his lunch and dinner, and a ripped-apart copy of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ which once belonged to Dudley but due to Harry pointing out some astonishing similarities between him and the main character, was instantly destroyed and thus became Harry's. 

"Come on then! We don't have all day," was his aunt's harsh reply. It was curious how a person could put so much off-putting distaste in a couple of short sentences, but Harry's unpleasant aunt was certainly able to. 

Petunia dragged Harry outside of Number Four Privet Drive and onto the street towards Arabella Figg's house, all while warning Harry of some unfortunate punishments should their neighbor be witness to anything uncouth or, heaven forbid, anything strange. Harry, squinting in the sudden sunlight, muttered his "Yes Aunt Petunia"'s and winced at his aunt's grip.  

"No funny business!" Petunia repeated at least four times in the span of a minute before finally depositing him on their neighbor's front step and ringing the doorbell. The gray-haired Mrs. Figg opened the door after the second ring, and Petunia instantly contained herself.  

"Good morning Mrs. Figg," she said in her most pleasant voice which was still very off-putting to Harry's ears. 

"Oh, hello Petunia. Hello Harry," she said distractedly, sparing a glance at the young boy.  

"Thank you so much for watching him, we know how difficult he can be." 

"Oh it's no problem Petunia, no problem at all! Come in Harry." Her voice became curt when addressing Harry, as it always was when his aunt was around, but he knew that she would soften once the door was closed so he stepped inside. 

With a last disdainful glance at his direction, Petunia thanked Mrs. Figg once more before turning around with the door shutting behind her.  

Harry followed Mrs. Figg to the living room where a great many cats sat around starring eerily at them. Harry had only come across a couple of other cats besides these, but even he could tell that Mrs. Figg's cats were very different. He never saw them play or ever heard them meow, and they always stared at him as if they had something to tell him. But if he ever said any of this out loud to Mrs. Figg, or his aunt, he knew that he would never be allowed to go back there. And as boring as it was staring at Mrs. Figg's cat albums, it was much better than being dragged around roughly by his aunt and uncle and getting cuffed in the head for doing something "weird." 

"Oh Harry I do hope you brought something to keep yourself occupied, I need to sort out my mail today and I'm afraid I'm not going to be much company." 

"I brought a book."  

"Oh, very good then. If you get too bored don't be afraid to turn on the telly." Her television was a wooden thing that only had a handful of channels in black and white. Harry glanced at it before deciding that he would ask to go outside once he finished looking at his book.  

He pulled out his taped up copy of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ and sat himself on the armchair as Mrs. Figg pulled out a large stack of envelopes and began separating them out, all while muttering to herself. He opened the book up and began looking at the pictures; he was still very young and his aunt and uncle had never read a single book to him in his short life, so he was stuck guessing on what the story was about. Harry didn't mind however, he could spend hours thinking up of his own stories about the caterpillar's life inside and outside of the book, his favorite was coming up with members of the caterpillar's extended family. So he sat content for a long while, thankful that he wasn't getting punched by his cousin, or being made to wait for hours while his aunt shopped for Dudley's clothes.  

Harry had reached the last page and was considering asking Mrs. Figg to read the book to him when it happened, a loud crack echoed throughout the neighborhood. 

Loud random noises weren't exactly uncommon, and Harry's initial thought was that some teenager had lit up a firecracker. It was Mrs. Figg's reaction to the noise that startled Harry. She violently jerked, scattering all the envelopes and abruptly stood up. 

"Oh no, oh dear, it's happening," she whimpered in a low voice before turning to Harry. "Harry stay right there! I'll go see what that noise was!" She smiled reassuringly, but Harry's curiosity was piqued. While Mrs. Figg stumbled to the front door, he put his book down and followed. 

"Oh dear, oh no, I'm going to have to contact Dumbledore, oh Merlin, but what to do in the meantime!" Her mutterings were meant to be low, but Harry guessed that in her panicked state, she simply forgot. She reached the front door and stood fretting in front of it. 

"Honestly, leaving a squib in charge of the boy! Even I have more sense-" a sudden knocking ended her tirade and she squeaked. Harry, peeking around the corner, wondered what all the weird words she was saying meant. 

"Um, who is it?" She called, while wringing her hands. 

"Fletcher! Mundungus Fletcher!" The muffled voice said.  

"Mundungus?" She sounded relieved, but then her face lit up in confusion. "'Dungus!?" 

"Yeah, you remember me don't you!?" 

She opened the door and on the other side stood a very dirty, short man holding a very dirty, over-filled box. "'Ello Figgy! Very nice to see you again after so long! Always nice to see old Order members and all that." He shoved his way inside past a startled Mrs. Figg. 

"Mundungus what-keep your voice down! I have company!" 

"Eh? 'Ave some muggles over do you?" 

Harry ran back to the living room and sat upon the armchair as their voices came closer. 

"Not really, keep your voice down! What in heaven's sake are you doing in my house!" 

"I just came to talk Figgy! Can't even visit old friends these days without being question-" 

At this point he had reached the living room and looked around, eyes passing Harry before doubling back and widening. 

"Company?! Is that- Merlin's balls!" 

"MUNDUNGUS!" Mrs. Figg screeched. She grabbed a hold of his arm, toppling something from his box, and shoved him towards the stairs. "Oh Dumbledore is going to hear about this and he's not going to be happy!"  

Before turning to the stairs that the man was already ascending, she suddenly seemed to remember that Harry existed.  

"Oh Harry! Don't you worry dear, it turns out the noise was nothing." She laughed, sounding frantic. "Now be a dear and help me clean up those envelopes while I talk to my friend would you?"  

"Ok Mrs. Figg," was Harry's obedient reply. 

"Lovely! Now excuse me, I won't be gone long!" She stumbled up the stairs resuming her argument with Mundungus, and before long, Harry heard a door slam shut. 

Harry wasn't an especially nosy child, he had always been perfectly content to keep to himself, especially after being shunned by the Dursley's. But he was still a child who had just witnessed his usually composed neighbor startle over a visitor and then overheard some very interesting conversation between said neighbor and the visitor. It was all so very strange, and after being told for so long to stay away from strangeness, he acted how any child his age would act; he did what he was told specifically not to do.  

Slipping down from the armchair once again he ran towards the stairs and then promptly fell face first into the carpet, his glasses flying from his face. Fighting the urge to cry as his nose began to throb, he shoved his glasses on again before looking at what made him lose his footing.  

It was a book.  

The tears went away as his attention was captured by the face-down book. He picked it up and looked at the cover, which depicted a grinning man and a magnificent looking lion. Intrigued, Harry meant to open it before he stopped himself. He forgot that he had meant to go upstairs. 

Harry frowned and looked at the book. He dearly wanted to look through it, he only owned three books and they were all not nearly as thick and whole as the one he was holding. Mulling it over, he decided that he would keep it. He figured that the man had a whole box full of things so losing one book wouldn't make a difference. Harry, who had so little, would love and appreciate the book more than the man, who had a lot. 

Decision made, he shoved the book into his backpack. Luckily the backpack was one of those that older schoolboys used, bought by his aunt at a second-hand shop, so the book fit fine. Shoving _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ behind it, Harry resumed his trek up the stairs. 

Taking soft steps and eventually reaching the door, he pressed his ear against the cool dark wood. 

"-Dungus, this isn't a very good idea." 

"What do ya mean? It's brilliant! I provide you with a means to sell your goods, and you provide me with a place to, erm, store my merchandise." 

"But Dumbledore-" 

"Dumbledore doesn't 'ave to know! Look I figured that you're 'ere looking out for the lad downstairs because of 'im, and Dumbledore is a generous bloke and all, but 'e can't be paying for all your expenses can 'e." 

"Well no, but-" 

"And I know you used to sell your cats to get by back in the day. And I know that your old connections are all dried up thanks to the ministry cracking down on illegal breeding and all that. So it's a win-win situation if you ask me." 

There was silence.  

"I don't know..." 

"Please, Bella, do an old friend a favor. The ministry found all my 'iding spots, I'm desperate see. I'll get down on my knees and beg if you want me to." 

Another pause.  

"Fine, I'll let you place your things in the basement, for now. But we need to sort this out some more if we don't want Dumbledore finding out." 

"Don't worry Figgy! The old bloke won't catch a whiff of a thing! I'm not free of Azkaban for nothing, I know all the tricks for staying invisible right under people's noses!" 

"I suppose that's why all your hiding places are not so hidden anymore are they! Well never mind that for now, I have to check on Harry." 

Harry straightened in a panic. 

"He's a good boy, but still so young, I have to keep my eye- Harry!" Mrs. Figg's shocked face greeted Harry once the door swung open. Harry panicked, but had learned enough self-preservation from living with the Dursleys to be able to think fast. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt Mrs. Figg, but can I go outside to play please?" He said this in the most polite tone he could muster, it would have even pleased his aunt had she been there.  

"Well, of course you can dear," Mrs. Figg replied, looking uncertain but relieved.  

Glad that Mrs. Figg's suspicions of eavesdropping were partially gone, Harry ran downstairs and grabbed his backpack before shooting out the front door and sitting himself under a blooming tree. It was still very sunny outside, and the shade felt good as he mulled over what he had heard.  

Who was Dumbledore? The way they cautiously spoke about him made it seem like he was very powerful. But what was his relation to Harry, and why was he having Mrs. Figg look after him? There wasn't anyone else related to him besides his Aunt Marge, and the Dursley's never mentioned any other family that he may have. Perhaps he was related to his father? Perhaps he was having Harry looked after because he cared about him? Maybe one day he'd come and introduce himself and come and take Harry away!  

Harry felt a little bit of hope blossom in his chest before he squashed it down. That wasn't right. No one who cared about him would ever let him live with the Dursley's. And if he did have a connection with Harry, then he obviously didn't care too much if he didn't want Harry to meet him. He probably had Mrs. Figg looking out for him precisely because he himself didn't want to do it, he didn't want to be around Harry.  

Feeling the familiar pangs of loneliness stirring in him, he longed to open his backpack and look at his new book, but knew he would have to wait until he was hidden away in his cupboard where no one could see him. He didn't want anyone to know he had stolen something, and even worse, he didn't want anyone taking it away from him. 

So Harry sat underneath the tree, playing with bits of sticks and turning over rocks to find pill bugs, and before long Mrs. Figg was calling him back inside.  

"Harry, did you happen to see a book anywhere around here?" 

"No, Mrs. Figg," he lied, feeling almost no guilt.  

"Never mind Figgy, must 'ave a returners charm on it or something in the like." The man looked over from the living room and into the kitchen where Harry was eating his sandwich. "Well I must be off, it was nice seeing you again." His eyes rested on Harry. "And it was nice meeting you, lad."  

Harry, with a mouthful of sandwich, stared at him with his big green eyes and said nothing.  

Mrs. Figg shooed him to the front door and before long, Harry heard the door open and close before she came back.  

"Harry, we have to have a little talk."  

"Ok, Mrs. Figg." 

"Now that man that just came by, he's an old friend of mine. A good man, in his own way, but still, he's of an... unslightly sort, one that your aunt would disapprove of. If she were to find out that he visited, she might get angry and not let you come by anymore." 

Harry, finished with his sandwich, said nothing. 

"I do love it when you come over and keep me company Harry, and it would make me awful sad if your aunt were to not let you come by anymore. So let's keep his visit a secret, shall we?" 

Harry, who never had conversations with his aunt anyways, nodded his head. "Ok, Mrs. Figg." 

Mrs. Figg beamed. "Lovely, just lovely! Now, would you like a slice of pie dear? I picked some up yesterday from the market." 

Harry nodded vigorously and happily, sure that he would want to keep coming by, especially if it meant that he would get to experience more strangeness and keep more secrets and maybe even get more books. And eat more pie like the blueberry one that had been set in front of him. 

And as it turns out, not saying anything about a man named Mundungus Fletcher would be the first in a long line of secrets that Mrs. Figg would ask him to keep.


	2. The Kneazle

 

 

The first day of summer fell on a Thursday that year, and Harry spent it weeding his Aunt Petunia's garden. 

"You're nearly five," his uncle had told him, his great big mustache twitching as he glowered at Harry. "It's been more than three years since we took you in, it's time you started pulling your weight around here, boy." 

Dudley, looking more and more like a miniature version of his father, had stuck his tongue out from behind Vernon's back. Harry wanted to glare and shove Dudley into the ground, but he knew his uncle would not stand for it. So Harry muttered his "Yes, Uncle Vernon," and received his very first chores list. It consisted of only two things, weeding the garden and cleaning up Dudley's toy room. Of course, Harry couldn't read, so he had to ask a very annoyed Petunia what his note said, and she angrily told him to go outside and tend to the garden. 

So Harry did, and got a very nasty sunburn because of it. 

He spent the night sniffling in his cupboard, too tired and too much in pain to even look at his Lion Book, the book he had looked into every night ever since he stole it from Mundungus Fletcher months ago. He still couldn't understand what it said, but he loved looking at all the pictures, which were the very definition of strangeness, and which Harry loved. There were pictures of men in funny robes waving sticks ( _a wand_ he once thought,  _like a magician_ ), boiling cauldrons, a variety of animals ranging from elephants to wasps, and mostly, there were pictures of different people  _transforming_ into these different animals.

But the best part was, all these pictures  _moved_. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but he had come up with two explanations. Either they had invented a way to combine the telly with paper inside of books, and Harry was holding one of the very first of its kind and the Mundungus person was a very rich man who could afford such a thing.

Or it was simply  _magic._

Harry initially believed in the former explanation, which he had been perfectly content with. He simply wished he could have rubbed such a wicked invention in Dudley's face, but he knew that if he ever let the Dursley's catch wind of the book, they would take it away in a heartbeat.

He  _initially_  believed in the former explanation, until he got his sunburn and got dropped off at Mrs. Figg's house the next day because his Aunt Petunia didn't want a sniffling Harry to accompany them on Dudley's birthday trip to circus.

"Yes, he has quite the sunburn. I told him not to play outside for so long but he simply wouldn't listen!" Petunia was giving quite a show of exasperation to Mrs. Figg who was nodding her head sympathetically as Harry trudged inside her house. There was a feeling of bitterness inside of him as he tried not to move his arms and neck too much, a feeling which he would get used to in the years to come.

"Yes, well, boys will be boys!" Mrs. Figg said. "And with two of them, I don't know how you do it!" 

"Of course it's so very difficult, especially with a child as troublesome as Harry. But me and my husband couldn't leave the poor boy out in the streets when he first showed up on our doorstep. We're too good of people for that sort of thing. And imagine what the neighbors would have said!"

When Petunia finished her complaints to a sympathetic Mrs. Figg and finally turned around and left, the door slammed just a little harder than usual after her.

"Oh dear, let me get you some ice, Harry." Mrs. Figg rushed to the kitchen, leaving him standing in the living room, very aware of all the eyes staring at him from different positions in the room. But there was one particular mound of fur with a particular set of eyes that drew his attention. Sitting on top of Mrs. Figg's old, wooden television, was the biggest and most ugly cat Harry had ever seen. It was a dusty, spotted grey with bright yellow eyes set in a squashed face. If Harry didn't already know that Mrs. Figg was fond of cats, he would have guessed that it was a very feline looking bulldog. Or maybe a feline bear. Or maybe it did look mostly like a cat after all. 

It's big ears were turned towards him as Harry stood, wondering if he should approach it or not.

 "Here you go dear- oh! I see you've finally met my new cat!"

"That's not a cat." These words, full of childish indignation, left his mouth unthinkingly, and he immediately felt stupid. If that wasn't a cat, then what else could it be? These were the kind of statements that got his head cuffed by the Dursleys. 

Mrs. Figg began to fret nervously. "O-of course she's a cat, child!" She stammered. Harry turned to look at her panicked face. "I must admit, she does look rather... large, but she's probably just cross bred with something else! Like maybe a lynx... or a panther."

Slightly mollified that he had been partially right, it wasn't _entirely_  a cat, he began to approach it. "Can I pet it?"

"You may pet _her_  Harry. But she might not let you, she's a bit more independent than Snowy or Mr. Paws."

Harry didn't think it'd be possible for a cat to be more independent, and as he laid his small, reddened hand on the cat's head, it did nothing but blink at him.

"Oh she likes you! How lovely. Now get your ice, Harry, it's melting all over me."

She handed the ice bag over to him and he placed in on his shoulder. The relief was instant. "Thank you, Mrs. Figg."

"You're welcome, dear! Now, I wanted to show you some new pictures that I took of Tufty." She rushed over to a set of drawers and pulled out a thick photo album. "He simply looked radiant last month, I couldn't help myself!"

Harry settled down on the couch with her as she showed him her extensive and detailed collection of new pictures, but he couldn't help but keep looking over at the grey cat, who was also keeping a watchful eye. 

"What's her name?"

Mrs. Figg, in the middle of pointing out the exquisite lighting in one of the photos looked up. "Snowy, dear, you know that." 

"No, what's _that_ cat's name?" He pointed to the one sitting on the television.  

"Oh, that's right I didn't mention. Her name is Duchess," she said happily. "It quite suits her don't you think?"

The cat was ugly, but Harry guessed that there _was_ a sort of regalness about her. 

"Can I play with her?" 

"I'm afraid that she doesn't do much playing. Why don't you play outside instead?" She looked over at Harry, who was still holding the ice bag, now mostly melted, against his shoulder. "Or maybe not, we don't want you to get any worse." 

She stood up and tutted, placing the album back in the drawer. "Let me see if I can find you some sun lotion. Or maybe some lavender oil. Or was it aloe vera that was good for burns? Hm, stay right there dear, I'll be back!"

As Mrs. Figg rushed up the stairs to her bedroom, Harry once again turned to the cat.

"Hello Duchess." Harry edged closer until he stood near the television.

The cat's eyes, which were half-closed watching him approach, suddenly widened and it jumped, landing gracefully near a startled Harry who took stumbling step back. The cat looked even bigger standing on the floor. If it stood on its hind legs, it would be even taller than him.

It sniffed a wary Harry, it's nose touching his hand before going up his reddened arm. It paused, and then stuck out it's tongue and licked him. It's rough tongue felt unpleasant against his skin and he immediately brought his arm closer to his body. The cat did not look pleased. 

"Sorry, but that hurt." 

The cat still looked unimpressed.

"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, you were probably just trying to make me feel better," Harry said sadly. He reached out his hand and patted it's head. "You're a very nice cat, and I really like your name. Duchess."

The cat closed its eyes and purred into Harry's hand. He felt relieved and excited, no cat had ever been this receptive to him! They all either hissed and ran away or, in the case of Mrs. Figg's other cats, ignored him.

"A very nice cat," he said happily. "Do you want to share some of my snack?" He placed the ice pack on the coffee table, ran over to his backpack, and pulled out a half eaten bag of trail mix. "My cousin Dudley didn't like them so my Aunt Petunia said I could have them."

He held out a raisin towards Duchess who sniffed it, then looked at him. 

"You don't like it?"

Her head slightly shook. 

Harry's eyes widened.

"You can understand me?" 

Duchess tilted her head and meowed.

 A door shut above them and Harry pulled his hand away. 

 "Harry," Mrs. Figg called. "I found some lotion if you wanted to play outside for a bit. But only for a bit because- oh Harry, don't feed her that!"

Harry put the raisin back in the bag as Mrs. Figg rushed down the stairs. "Mrs. Figg!" He said excitedly, nearly bouncing. "She understood me!"

"Well of course she understands you, dear, cats are very smart creatures." She took his bag of trail mix and handed him the bottle of lotion.

"No but she _understood_ me, like a _person_." 

"I've always said that cats are practically like humans! I'm glad that you're learning to respect them as such, Harry. Not many people have the same thinking as us," she winked at him. Somehow Harry knew that she wasn't quite on the same page as him, so he pouted.

"Well don't you want to go outside then?" Harry shook his head, petulant. Mrs. Figg frowned. "Oh Harry, don't throw a tantrum. Cats can't eat the same things as we can and raisins are particularly bad for them. Here, why don't I let you feed her some kibble!" 

Harry wanted to tell her that he wasn't angry because he didn't get to feed her some of his snack, he was angry because she didn't understand what he was trying to say. Duchess was different from the other cats, she understood him! She had even wanted to make him feel better!

But then a thought struck Harry. What if this was another one of Mrs. Figg's secrets? Like that man, Mundungus Fletcher, and the pile of boxes he sometime catches glimpses of down the basement stairs? Maybe Mrs. Figg knew that Duchess was different, but she couldn't tell him? 

Later, once there were five cats crowding around three food bowls, Harry solemnly told Mrs. Figg that he would keep Duchess a secret from his aunt and uncle.

"Oh well, I suppose that is best. Your aunt doesn't like animals very much does she." 

Harry shook his head. 

"Yes, well. Good then." 

Harry went over to pet an eating Duchess, but had he been paying closer attention, he would have noticed Mrs. Figg nervously wringing her hands.

\---

Duchess proved to be Harry's first and only friend for a long while. She followed him around whenever he was over at Mrs. Figg's house and he happily spent his summer petting her thick fur and chattering away. He would tell her about his day, and about the cartoons he had watched that morning, or what new toys Dudley had destroyed and discarded to him. He also talked extensively about living with the Dursleys whenever Mrs. Figg was out of earshot. He didn't want the Dursleys finding out that he was talking badly about them, and he was sure that Duchess would keep all his secrets. 

"They make me do loads of chores, and Dudley doesn't have to do anything, it's not fair."

"Aunt Petunia is mean, but she's not as scary as Uncle Vernon."

"I pushed Dudley yesterday and Aunt Petunia said I had to apologize or I wouldn't get any dinner. It wasn't fair! Dudley punched me first!" 

Duchess always listened to him, her big yellow eyes fixated and blinking slowly. She would offer the occasional hiss whenever the Dursleys had been especially horrible to Harry, and purred if Harry got too sad.

"You haven't got any parents either do you? Not if you're here with Mrs. Figg like me. So I guess we're both orphans."

Harry even deemed her trustworthy enough to talk to her about his Lion Book and how he came across it. He told her about the pictures inside of it, and how they moved, and how he believed that there was something more to it than what he understood. That it was  _magic_. 

"Some of the people in the pictures have wands! I didn't realize it at first, but now it makes so much sense. And you must be magic too! That's why you can understand me!"  

"Mrs. Figg must be magic too, but I know that she wants me to keep it a secret. It makes me feel really important."

Harry didn't just talk to her, they also played together. Harry spent the bright, sweltering days running around catching bugs and trying to climb the tree in Mrs. Figg's backyard. Duchess was always beside him, catching what he couldn't catch and climbing the branches he couldn't reach.

It got to the point where Harry began to get very excited whenever his Aunt Petunia told him that he would be spending the day at Mrs. Figg's house. So excited, that his aunt noticed, and began to take him along more often with her and Dudley on their outings, to Harry's dismay. 

"You're going to be starting school soon, and I won't have you acting rude towards the teachers. I'm going to have to show you some manners."

Harry was sad that he wouldn't get to spend so much time with Duchess anymore, but also very excited of the prospect of going to school. School! He would be getting to meet new children and hopefully some of them would decide to be friends with him! Dudley already had a few friends around the neighborhood and from a few play dates, but they were all as mean to Harry as Dudley was. Most of the children at school didn't know Dudley, so hopefully some of them would decide to be friends with Harry!

Harry regaled all of this excitedly to Duchess a few days after his birthday (he had received no gifts or cake this year, except for a bottle cap from Duchess). He was at Mrs. Figg's while the Dursleys went to go visit his Aunt Marge. Petunia had been reluctant to let him go over, but after Harry had faked a stomach illness and threatened to throw up all over her carpet, she dragged him over to their neighbor's.

"School is going to be so much fun! I bet all the teachers there are going to be nice, and they'll teach me how to read and write!"

Duchess, who was laying beside him on the couch as Mrs. Figg cooked him some soup in the kitchen, gave him an encouraging meow.

\--- 

Harry's first day of school was a nightmare.

As it turned out, Dudley was in his same class, which would not have been all that bad, if it hadn't been for the fact that his friends were also in that class. They spent the day throwing bits of paper at Harry and making rude remarks about him to the other students. To make matters worse, the teacher was a regular attendee of the Little Whinging Association of Homemakers, an organization that Harry's Aunt Petunia also regularly attended, and had members over from time to time. From the start of class, the teacher, Mrs. Harris, had been especially hard to him, and would blame him anytime Dudley and his friends caused a ruckus. 

It all came to a climax when during lunch, Dudley up-ended a carton of milk over Harry's head, earning him some laughs, but also getting him into trouble. And if Dudley got in trouble over Harry, then that automatically meant that Harry was to blame.

"An embarrassment!" Aunt Petunia's face was red as she drove them home from school afterwards. "And on the very first day too!"

"It was all Harry's fault, Mummy!" Dudley's face was red from the dramatic sobs he had let out when Petunia had come for them in the classroom. Harry simply had his arms crossed and was staring out of the car window.

"I know, Dudders. Mummy knows you're a good boy," Petunia simpered. 

When she parked into the drive-way and they all got out, she roughly grabbed Harry by his arm and dragged him to the backyard. " _You_ are going to weed my garden! And don't even think about getting dinner tonight! When you're done, into the cupboard you go!" 

Harry gave a bitter "Yes, Aunt Petunia," earning him another earful about his attitude.  When his aunt finally left, giving him one last warning about not wrecking any of the plants, he dropped down to his knees and stared at the dirt. He had thought that school was going to be different. He thought that it was going to be like it was on the telly, a smiling, welcoming teacher, and a room full of laughing children. But here he was, pulling weeds just as he had at the beginning of the summer, and just as miserable.

Feeling the burn of tears coming on and the tightening of his throat foretelling some sobbing, he didn't notice the creature approach until she meowed at him. Harry startled, looking up right into Duchess's yellow eyes. Duchess never visited him while he was at the Dursley's, Harry didn't think that Mrs. Figg would let her, seeing as she was an odd looking cat and all. Mrs. Figg probably didn't want the neighbors to talk badly about her like the Dursley's always worried about.  

But there she was, in her ugly regalness, sitting patiently next to him in the Dursley's own backyard.

"Oh, hello Duchess." He rubbed away the wetness in his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

She impatiently pawed something on the ground, something she had dropped before him that he hadn't noticed. Something he had only seen before in his moving pictures.

Duchess had brought him a wand.


	3. The Wand

"Freak!"

The screech cut off Harry's trance and the toy keyboard that had been levitating in the air crashed back onto the floor. His aunt stood in the doorway, looking like she had just witnesses him murder Dudley himself. Her body heaving, eyes wide and crazed, her over-large teeth gaping over her open mouth.

Harry really hadn't meant to do anything. He had been cleaning Dudley's toy room, as his chore list had demanded of him, when he tripped and crashed into a shelf, toppling the precariously placed keyboard towards his head. He had been flinching, arms over his head, when he realized that nothing had fallen on him, and that's when he saw that it was miraculously floating a few inches above him.

Eyes wide, he looked at his seething aunt. "I don't know-"

"Out!"

"But-"

"Get out of my sight!"

Eyes prickling with tears, Harry dashed past his aunt and down the stairs before quickly scrambling into his cupboard.

He really hadn't meant to do it, he didn't even know how it was possible. He wasn't magic, he was just plain old Harry.

...who happened to know a magical creature. And who was sometimes watched by a magical old woman. And who maybe had a magical guardian.

Harry rubbed away his tears as he realized what had happened. Duchess was probably the one to have saved him, although he didn't see her in the room. Nowadays she had a habit of popping up wherever and whenever she pleased, so he wouldn't be surprised if she had been licking her paws in a pile of toys while Harry was preoccupied.

He didn't know she was able to actually levitate things, though. He would have to ask her about it the next time he saw her. Then tell her not to do it again. He would rather have gotten a bump in the head than to get in trouble with his aunt and uncle.

Having calmed down, Harry listened to see that his aunt was still stomping upstairs, and that the television was on, signaling that Dudley was occupied. He reached underneath the dirty foam padding that served as his bed on the metal framing of his cot, and pulled out his two most prized positions, his book and his wand.

Harry still couldn't really read, but he was able to recognize most letters. His teacher was still very cold to him, but she couldn't really exclude him from the group lessons. He supplemented his teachers lack of individual engagement with his own burning desire to be able to read as soon as possible, leading him to concentrate on most his lessons as much as a five year-old could. One of his only solstices was his Lion Book, and he dearly wanted to finally read it as soon as he was able.

His other prized possession, the wand, was more of a puzzle. When he had first gripped it months ago in the garden, bright sparks had exploded from its tip, and his hair had instantly stuck up even wilder than usual. But nothing else had happened. No matter how many fierce "Abra Kedabra"'s Harry had whispered at night, swishing his wand, no more lights had come from it.

The natural conclusion had been that Harry wasn't magic, to his utter devastation, a revelation that he was still moping about.

The wand itself was as long as Harry's forearm, and was made out of a dark wood. Despite Harry's failures with it, he still liked clutching it, feeling a sense of comfort from the cool wood.

(Comfort that there was more to his life than just being an orphan and living with people who hated him. Comfort that magic existed and was there, right in his hands, even if he couldn't see it, or use it, it _existed_.)

So Harry sat in his dim cupboard, clutching the wand and so dearly wishing that he could do _some_ magic, at least. Just maybe more of the lights, that would have made him bounce with joy again.

But then he remembered his failed spells.

And then, he thought about what had just happened, about the keyboard levitating and his aunt's screech of "freak" towards him.

Maybe he could do magic.

But that wouldn't make sense, he didn't have the wand at the time, and he didn't even mean to make it float. It must have been Duchess. It must have.

He had to ask her.

Stuffing the wand and book back under his bed, he once again checked to see that the Dursleys were preoccupied before silently crawling out of this cupboard and sneaking to the back door and out into the yard.

He went over to the bushes that that lined the fence separating the Dursley's yard from the Garrison's and began to call out in Duchess's name in a low voice. There wasn't ever a guarantee that she would show up whenever Harry called like this, but today he was lucky. After a few minutes, a bush rustled and her large, grey body slinkered out. She went up to him, her yellow eyes dilated into slits in the overcast sunshine, and rubbed herself against him, purring.

"Hello, Duchess. How are you?" Harry said, happily and politely.

Duchess merely sat back and meowed at him. Harry settled down beside her and began to tell her about what just transpired in the room.

"It was you, wasn't it Duchess, you saved me."

Duchess looked away, up at a crow flying across the sky.

"It wasn't?"

She looked back at him.

"Then, who was it? Who saved me?"

She rubbed her head against his arm.

"You mean...I did that that? I can do magic? Like you and Mrs. Figg?"

She continued to rub her head, this time with a purr coming out of her throat.

A wide grin spread across Harry's face. "Wicked."

\---

So the months passed by, and Harry grew a little bigger by the minute, smarter everyday, but made no progress on his magic save for a few seemingly random mishaps. An unseen force shoving Dudley after he steals Harry's library book, having already broken his only pencil in half. Some cheesecake appearing on his plate after his aunt's usual denial of desert (his aunt had been facing away, Harry had never eaten so fast in his young life). And most fascinating of all, disappearing and reappearing in a different part of school after a particularly hard and rough chase by Dudley and his friends.

(It had Harry squeezing his eyes and clenching his muscles every night for a week in an attempt to recreate that bit of magic, with no luck.)

But in cleverness he succeeded in bounds, fueled by the desperation of wanting to read his Lion Book, his very first magical possession, something that could possibly _teach_  him how to do magic. His second school year had blessed him with a more welcoming teacher who was delighted by Harry's interest in literature, and puzzled by his dire social situation and inability to make a single friend (by that time, Dudley had made his presence and reputation known during their recess hour, so although they didn't share the same class, he was still left suffering the results of his lies and threats of violence to both himself and the other children). Harry's teacher, along with the strict but fair librarian, had him advancing in leaps and bounds. By the end of the school year, the then almost seven-year-old Harry had gotten an award for fastest reader in his grade level.

Which earned him a hard kick from his uncle, and no dinner for a week.

("You think you're better than Dudley, boy? You think you're better better than US, you little freak? You're no better than your drunk father, and your bint of a mother!" Then came the kick, as Aunt Petunia, her mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line, stayed uncharacteristically silent and still.)

He hadn't minded as much as he might have, as he spent those dinner times locked in his cupboard and examining the book, Duchess popping up intermittently from under the cot to deliver bits of bread and chicken. Although his knee did smart from the fall after the kick, he distracted himself well enough.

\---

  
"Animagus Transformations for the Dimwits and Less Studious Inclined," Harry whispered to Duchess one cold winter night. Kneeling on his cot, he had a school dictionary propped up in front of him, and the book next to it. Duchess was curled around his feet behind him, keeping them warm, shifting occasionally to show that she was listening. "Written by Andy Anderson and illustrated by Julie Le." There was a glittering stack of words in the lower right corner, excitedly increasing and decreasing in size. "Now with more illustrations."

He squinted his eyes in confusion.

"I found 'studious' in the dictionary, Duchess," he whispered, pointing on the open page, "and I figured out what 'inclined' is supposed to mean here, but I can't find 'Animagus.'"

He felt her get up, the instant rush of cold air touching his bare feet causing him to tuck them more securely under him. She wove around him and sat in front the the dictionary, peering at it. With a rush of soft air coming out of her nose, a mimicry of a snort, she swatted the book, causing it to almost fall with a thud on the floor had Harry not caught it in time.

"Duchess!" Harry whispered outraged and glaring, but she merely began to clean her paw. He huffed and placed the book in front of him once more before examining it in puzzlement. "So you're saying that this isn't the _right_ dictionary?"

A pause in cleaning, before she resumed.

"Alright, so if this isn't the _right_  one, then where can I get the one that's _right_?"

No response.

"If you don't know, then I don't either. Why isn't this the right one anyway? It's an unabridged version, Ms. Martin told me so. I don't really know what that means but it's supposed to have _all_  the words."

A swat towards the dictionary before she resumed her grooming.

"Yes I know, it's useless, you made your point clear."

Harry pushed his sliding glasses up his nose

"I guess if it's not in here, then someone made it up. The author did, since authors can do that I suppose. Or maybe it's in a magic dictionary for magic words." Harry suddenly felt incredibly dense; of course with magic being so secretive, a word (that did sound magical now that he thought about it, it practically had the word "magic" in it after all) wouldn't be in a normal dictionary. Even an unabridged one, whatever that meant. "Well either way, I'm going to have to figure it out by myself, then." That was fine, his teacher had sometimes made the children do that by making them all pronounce it slowly, and then think about what the word _sounded_ like, and what it  _seemed_ like it would mean. 

Most of the time it didn't really work, but she had said that Harry had a knack for it.

He stared hard at the cover before turning to the first page. All it had was a drawing of the smiling blonde man from the cover turning into grinning lion, then turning back to the blonde man, then back to the lion, then back to the man, and over and over.

"Animagus," he whispered to himself, "Animagus, animagus like animal. He's turning into an animal, so he's magic. Animagus. Animal magic."

Duchess purred and Harry suddenly remembered the shows he would sometimes get to watch on the telly. Cartoons about talking animals and cars that turn into robots, and one particular cartoon about a boy name Arthur and an old man named Merlin. A _wizard_  named Merlin, and how in one of the episodes, he turned into a big, white-footed stag in order to trick a king. He thinks about he himself turning into a stag, and how big he would be; big enough to run away easily from Dudley, big enough to scare away Aunt Petunia, and big enough to be able to kick Uncle Vernon with his big hooves.

Then he thought through all his failed attempts at recreating magic, and the defeat he felt after every try. He looked at his book, and suddenly felt a burning desire different from his other longings towards magic. Something that felt less like want, and more like desperation.

He may not have been able to create anymore magic voluntarily, but there was nothing in the world that he desired more at that very moment, than to be like Merlin and turn into a stag.

And with that burning desperation in his chest, that excited energy buzzing in his limbs, he turned to the next page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the cartoon about merlin was a reference to A Sword in the Stone, and although he doesn't turn into a stag in the movie, though he turns into a bunch of other animals, that particular story about him also exists! (the king was julius caesar)
> 
> thank you to all who have commented and left kudos on this story! it is all very much appreciated!


End file.
